


Bread from Buckland

by Zoop (zoop526)



Series: Proportionate Relations [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fourth Age, Hanging, Orcs, Other, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: 2016 Winter Holiday Story. A young lass on her way home finds an Orc hanging from a tree.





	

Megan Thistlewool stepped to the side of the path to allow the half dozen merrily singing Men to pass. Their horses puffed steam in the chill air, and though they held a leisurely pace now, the horses' flanks shown from hard running not so long ago. She couldn't be certain, for the Men seemed of higher birth and so she kept her eyes down humbly, but she had a sense of unease about them. Something in the way they sang, or perhaps the songs themselves - tavern songs, mostly - left her worried. The sooner she reached Buckland with her bundle of herbs and greens, the better. Let the guardsmen of Bree deal with them, if they'd done someone a mischief on the way to town. She was simply a grocer's daughter, of no consequence or means.

It was an oft-used path through the woods that ran parallel to the East Road. Soon enough, it would branch, and she would be obliged to turn right, leave the forest's sheltering trees, and endure the sharp wind for the last mile. No one took the left path. The Old Forest may not be as treacherous as it was in the days before the War, but it still had its fair share of hazards. More than a fair share, some folk said.

Less than an hour of hunched walking passed, her cold hands stuffed up each opposite sleeve of her thin coat, when she heard the sounds. A branch was getting a proper shaking up ahead; she could hear the last of its dry leaves rustling wildly. Curious, and not a little worried, Megan hastened forward. She was brought up short by what she found, and could not draw a breath for a shocked moment.

She'd found the poor soul those Men had abused. It was a tall tree, but had a few stout branches twice a Man's height from the ground. A rope was bound to the lower trunk, and ran tautly up and over one of those lower branches. Dangling from the rope was an Orc.

His death hadn't come straightaway. Somehow, he'd survived the snap and fall, or he'd been hauled up and left to die slowly. Either way, he'd managed to pull himself up enough to grasp the branch with one clawed hand, and the rope with the other, and was frantically chewing through the rope. Even from her vantage point, she could see his strength failing; the thick rope would surely outlast him.

"Oh my goodness, Mister Baduzgûg, let me help you!" she cried, dropping her burden at the foot of the tree. Whether from surprise or exhaustion, the Orc's struggles ceased, and he hung motionless. Yet his grip on branch and rope held.

Fingers numb from the cold, Megan fumbled at the knot. She had no knife, and no gloves, but she had determination. Those Men did this, she was certain. It happened now and then; she'd heard the whispers when an Orc was found in this state, always too late. Perhaps she could do little enough before spirited young Men went about looking for sport, but she might manage to undo at least this mischief. That such a thing would happen to an Orc of her acquaintance, one who'd lived in her town for at least five years with no accusation of misdeeds, was appalling.

"I'll have you down in two shakes," she muttered absently, her brow furrowing. The rope was hastily tied, no doubt to allow a quick departure lest someone catch them in the act. The Orc's struggles had tightened it a bit, but it wasn't beyond her strength to untie. Soon the knot came loose, and the rope snaked swiftly from around the trunk. Poor Mister Baduzgûg plummeted to the ground in a boneless heap.

Megan hastened to his side. He was too weak to do more than feebly scratch at the rope about his neck. She worked the noose's knot loose, and slipped the rope off. He gasped for breath, drawing in great gulps of it, his eyes closed.

"Rest yourself, now," she said gently. Rummaging in her haversack, she brought forth a flask. "I've no water to give you, but I have this. Perhaps it will renew you a touch." She held the flask of spirits to his lips, and he eagerly drank.

"Thank you, Miss," Mister Baduzgûg rasped, and struggled to sit up. Finally, he looked at her properly, and his eyes narrowed. "I know you."

"Yes, you do," she smiled. "I suppose, not well. I'm Megan Thistlewool."

"The grocer's daughter?" His heavy brow rose, and he half smiled. "Aye, I've seen you about. Heh. I was taking bread to your auntie, I think. The Widow Thistlewool, in Bree."

"So you are the admirable lad she speaks so highly of!" Megan laughed. "I had no idea."

Baduzgûg's brow furrowed, and he looked away. "I'm sure she doesn't mean me. I, um... Mister Smallburrow has me hand off the goods to Dirk Huntley. He does the deliveries, on account of her man... Well, the War and all."

Megan nodded awkwardly, and shifted a bit. "I see."

Noting her movement, he sighed. "War's over, Miss."

"I know it is," she replied quickly. "I know it is."

"You can't have been more than a child."

"I wasn't, but... I remember. Some things." Her hands in her lap suddenly drew her attention. "I suppose... you weren't. A child, that is."

"No. I was a soldier."

She glanced up and briefly met his eyes, then looked down again. A memory of red eyes and sharp teeth, gleaming in the darkness, made her tremble. "I see."

"All Orcs were, you know," he softly pointed out. "Couldn't be helped. When He called, we came. We could hear Him, then." He tapped his temple with a clawed finger.

Hesitating for a moment, she gnawed her lip and rocked a bit before blurting, "What was it like? In... that place?"

A slow smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "It was home. The only one I knew."

"I've been told it is, even now, a barren land."

Baduzgûg nodded. "In the north, it is. Southward, around the Nûrn, it's better. Farmlands and such. Looks about like Buckland, as a matter of fact." She gave him a disbelieving look, and he chuckled. "Not much like Buckland. More like the Downs up north."

"You've traveled quite a bit," she observed. "I've never been so far as Trestlebridge."

"I was looking for a place to settle, like anyone."

"And you eventually found yourself in Buckland."

"So did you," he chuckled. "You've got a Gondor accent. Must be that your family went looking, too."

Megan nodded uncomfortably. "Our farm... our village... They were laid to waste. We had little choice. I remember..." She hesitated, examining his rugged, bestial face for any sign of smugness or gloating. Finding none that she recognized, she soldiered on. "I remember when we were driven out. I was only five years old, and so frightened."

Sighing, Baduzgûg nodded. "We were a fright, on the march. A terror when we attacked." He slowly looked up, and met her eyes. "We were made to look like this, and we used it."

"Do you... regret?"

"I regret that I must carry papers that say I am 'docile,'" he growled sullenly. He gestured at a burned patch of ground nearby. "Now I have no proof. I have no bread for your auntie, either. Five years, I have walked this path without trouble, and today it found me." He shook his head. "King's Law does not protect my kind when the King is not watching."

"Did... did your... your Master protect you when He was not watching?"

Baduzgûg glanced up and huffed with amusement. "When was He not watching? That is the question. He was called the Eye for a reason." He winked, and grinned toothily.

She couldn't help chuckling at the grim joke. After a moment, her humor faded. "I'm so sorry." He arched his brow curiously. "That you must carry papers. Something so easily lost, or... taken."

The Orc shrugged. He plucked at his sackcloth shirt. She noted its ragged appearance, with the sleeves torn off. Fraying threads waved feebly in the wind. His trousers were in no better shape, patched at the knees and roughly mended here and there. Though Megan took little note of the fashions of Orcs in Buckland, she couldn't recall seeing Mister Baduzgûg looking quite so threadbare.

"Surely you didn't set out on your delivery in such a state," she observed, her brow pinched with disapproval. "Did those Men... those _boys_ take your clothing?"

Baduzgûg's smile returned. "They did. I was dressed too fine for an Orc, you see. This is the sort of rubbish I wore in... that place. Under my armor, mostly."

Again, she shifted uncomfortably. "I've always been... curious," she began quietly. "The last day. What it... did to you and... your people. You all seem so... so different now. From what I recall." The memory of red eyes stole over her again, and she shuddered.

"Have you ever been lost, Megan? Lost in a place you don't recognize? A place you knew like your own face only a moment ago? Surrounded by people, yet entirely alone? Your heart and your mind full of sudden terror? That is what it was like for us. Some went mad on the spot. Others ran. The direction didn't matter. Those of us not cut down where we stood, or swallowed by the earth when it cracked open beneath our feet... We ran, and we hid. Some could not run fast enough. Some could not hide deep enough, not when Men came to finish us."

"But... the Law...," she protested weakly. Baduzgûg snorted.

"There was no law for almost a year after the War's end," he told her. "Until our Voice was heard by Kings of Men and Dwarves, we could not poke our heads out of our deep holes."

"You speak of Shagrat," Megan noted, and the Orc nodded.

"He sacrificed much for our sakes," Baduzgûg acknowledged. "My tribe did not want to disappoint him. Some believed that, if we mended our ways, if we strove to live in the world, and not rail against it, we would be... changed." He pointed to his deep brown eyes. "Some of us were."

"Did it happen that day? Or after?"

"That day," he replied. "The Shadow died, and took our fire. Flames that burned brightly in our hearts, and in our eyes, was extinguished for some. It frightened us at first, like so many things did for months after. Then Shagrat came, and we saw his grey eyes. He told us his story, and we left that place in search of... something. My tribe wanted... something. Eventually, we found it.

"A group of our hunters found Lord Faramir beset by a band of Orcs who were our rivals during the Dark Times. Thinking a hand of aid to one so great as Shagrat's patron would gain us favor, they showed no mercy. Ever since then, we have served His Lordship. In Ithilien and Gondor, our banner is known. Here," he sighed, gesturing around him, "we are unknown."

"You should make yourself known," she said firmly. "You should wear your emblem proudly. I'm on my way to Buckland, and I expect you must return there as well. We'll tell Mister Smallburrow what happened, and he'll give you... He'll give you another set of papers."

Baduzgûg nodded bitterly. "Aye. He will. He must. I can't walk my route without them."

"As to that," she began thoughtfully, "it seems the roads are not as safe as... as they should be. We both make regular deliveries to Bree; we should make them together." She glanced at his surprised look, and her cheeks reddened. "In case of... of wolves, or... wild pigs. That sort of thing." She giggled nervously. "We both carry food, after all."

"That we do. And... I do not frighten you?"

"Not a bit."

He smiled. "Brave girl."

"And I think it's time my auntie knew who risks his life every week to make sure she has the sweetest bread in all of Bree-Land."

"Thank you, Miss," he said sincerely.

"If you are able now, we should get on," Megan said, standing up and brushing off her skirts. She offered him a hand up. "We've still a mile to walk."

"We do," Baduzgûg nodded, taking her proffered hand and lurching to his feet. He absently rubbed his throat, the skin raw. Black blood welled from the burn.

"Your eyes changed, but your blood did not," she noted quietly.

"It is too deep a wound for us," he acknowledged. "But I have seen young born since the War, and they bleed red. So there is hope, if not for me, then for..." He faltered, and looked away.

"Your children," she finished, and he flinched. Her eyes widened and her brow pinched sympathetically. "Oh dear. You... you haven't any."

"I had many. All gone now." He offered her a strained smile. "I have lived a hundred years, Megan. I have sired twenty-three whelps. Men say they have lost much to us, but we have lost more. Our young. Our mates. Brothers and sisters, aunties and uncles. Cousins. Friends. Lands we once called home. Our freedom." His smile became a grimace. "Once upon a time, we could walk the whole of these lands without fear. Without... papers. That time is long past."

Megan reached for his hand. His skin was rough against hers. "It will come again. All wars come to an end. Even those that last lifetimes."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The reference to Shagrat connects this tale to the Out of All Proportions saga.


End file.
